


Patient, Kind, Selfish, Blind

by stratumgermanitivum



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Background Hannigram, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Manipulation, Multi, No underage, implied but not explicit polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23685325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/pseuds/stratumgermanitivum
Summary: Her father didn’t love her in ‘that way.’ Abigail knows this, despite what the tabloids may say (and she’s read them, she’s read them all). He was a confused man, a sick man.Hannibal and Will are not her fathers.
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Abigail Hobbs, Will Graham/Abigail Hobbs/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 158





	Patient, Kind, Selfish, Blind

**Author's Note:**

> People were bitching about Will/Abigail being 'gross' again and I am nothing if not spiteful.
> 
> I feel like this should go without saying but obviously don’t fuck traumatized teenagers/young adults who may see you as an authority figure in real life.

Her father didn’t love her in ‘that way.’ Abigail knows this, despite what the tabloids may say (and she’s read them, she’s read them _all_ ). He was a confused man, a sick man.

“Conflicted,” Will says. “Loving, to the point of fear.”

But he didn’t love her like _that_. Sometimes the way he looked at Abigail made her uncomfortable, but she felt more like he wanted to pull her into him, make her a part of him, than to slip into _her_. Her father loved her the wrong way, but he didn’t love her _carnally_.

Hannibal and Will are not her fathers.

They get jokes about it, sometimes. Abigail has made a few herself. They are, technically, just men. Just two strange men who tripped into her life and now know too much to ever leave it. To ever be _allowed_ to leave it.

(Hannibal knows _everything_ , and for that alone, he must always be made to love her. To want to keep her safe. She cannot afford to lose his love.

Will doesn’t know, but he _will._ Abigail has read all about his cases and she knows that one day he’ll look at her face and see right through into her brain, into the deep, dark place where the secrets are buried and left to rot. She needs him to love her, too.)

Dr. Bloom tries to talk to her about it. She tries to enforce rules, boundaries.

“You shouldn’t be climbing over walls, Abigail,” she says.

“Dr. Lecter is wonderful, but I am your psychiatrist,” she says.

“Will Graham is a… complicated man,” she says.

Abigail climbs the walls. She sequesters herself in Hannibal’s kitchen and asks him questions about the food, about his methods.

“Show me?” She asks, a knife in her hand.

This is something she knows. How to read people. How to insert yourself into their lives.

Hannibal, she knows, understands people even better than she does. And he enjoys her machinations.

“Will Graham _is_ a complicated man,” he says, when Abigail tells him what Dr. Bloom told her. “That does not make him a bad one. He needs companionship, in these trying times, wouldn’t you agree?”

He knows what Abigail wants, what she thinks about. He takes her in with a tilt of his head, and she knows he approves.

“We all need companionship,” she says. She stands a little too close, her fingers linger a little too long over the knife.

“And what sort of companionship are you seeking, Abigail?”

She does not ‘win Hannibal over’ so much as he sees through her attempts and willingly gives himself for her. He has his own reasons, whatever they may be, and she doesn’t question them. The end result is the same, after all.

It’s her first time. He doesn’t ask her if she’s sure. Hannibal has always treated her like an adult, even when he’s acting paternal. He trusts her to make her own decisions.

She feels somewhat stupid for not preparing. She takes good care of herself, but she hasn’t shaved her legs in… a while. She hasn’t dolled herself up. Her underwear has a hole where the elastic leg meets the rest of the fabric.

Hannibal doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t touch her like she’s something precious and breakable. When he touches her, she feels like a person, for the first time in months.

And he touches her _a lot_ , before they even get to _doing it._ His fingers across her skin, his lips over the hard pebbles of her nipples. It’s cold, and not arousal, that keeps them peaked, but Hannibal’s mouth is warm when he seals his lips around one and sucks.

She’s read about ‘sparks of electricity’ and ‘burning cores,’ but none of it prepares her for when Hannibal lowers his head between her thighs. She spends the first few minutes in a squirming state of discomfort, thinking, certainly, she’s meant to be uncomfortable. Shyness and insecurity battle for the forefront of her mind. Then Hannibal looks up at her with something hot and hungry in his eyes, and it is arousal that wins out.

Everything narrows down. He brings her off with his lips and tongue, pushing her past awkward nerves and right into a bright, surging crest of pleasure.

“If you’re relaxed, if you trust me, it may not hurt.” His voice is a soft whisper against her cheek as he nudges his hips between her thighs, and she _does_ trust him, she does, how could she not after what he knows about her and has never told?

It hurts anyway, but just a bit. A sort of pinching, aching soreness, and then it’s in. Then he’s filling her, and she doesn’t feel any different than she did five minutes ago, but virginity has always been sort of a bullshit concept, anyway.

It hurts, and it doesn’t. It feels good, and it doesn’t. It’s a strange mix of sensation, but when it ends and he spills messy and wet inside her, she has no regrets.

“Do you feel different?” She asks him. It’s a stupid question, but she’s half asleep across his chest, warmed by his body heat.

“Our connection was already intimate,” Hannibal says after a moment. “This was merely a change in window dressing.

His connection with Will Graham is intimate, as well. She can see it in their eyes, the way they look at each other, the way Will skirts nervously around Hannibal, as if waiting for the bear trap to snap closed around him.

Hannibal hasn’t yet achieved the same intimacy with Will he has with Abigail. But he will.

Abigail’s relationship with Will is much less clear. He wants her, in some way. She’s not sure even _he_ knows which way. He looks at her, sometimes, like her father did. _Before._ Before menstruation and boys and college applications. The way her father would look at her when she was a child, that mingled confused pride and protectiveness.

Will is not her father. She thinks he might want to be, but Abigail already had a father, and look how well that worked out for her.

Hannibal hadn’t cared about the line that marred her throat, but she can see Will’s eyes skitter away from it, avoiding her scarves with a frantic desperation. He tries not to look at her at all, in fact, unless he has to.

He cannot be her father. But he can have her, if he wants to. He can protect her. He can reach out for a hug, a touch.

Will Graham is not as easy as Hannibal had been. Hannibal had fallen willingly for her machinations, Will is terrified of them. The first time she hugs him, innocent, slight, he stiffens like a statue in her arms. She is Medusa, and every time she looks too long, he freezes.

He loves her, in his own way, but it’s not enough. Will’s love is skittish as a dear. Frightened of her, frightened of attachment. He would abandon her in a heartbeat if he thought it was better for her, abandon her and Hannibal both, and neither of them can have that.

“I think it’s time to invite Will to the family,” Hannibal says over dinner, “don’t you?”

She grins at him, small and subdued, but biting. She’s learned from him how to phrase things so that the edges of her words are sharp.

“He already killed someone,” she says, “who does he have to eat?”

She knows the joke isn’t lost on Hannibal by the way he grimaces at her crudeness. She sticks her tongue out in response and he rolls his eyes.

He’s fond of her, she knows. The same tired fondness she’d always imagined an older sibling must have.

She’s never asked about his family. She won’t for several more years, jealousy gnawing uncomfortably at her belly when she thinks of him loving anyone but her and Will.

She makes her move one night after dinner. They’ve had Will over, and Hannibal is off washing dishes. She and Will are in the study, with glasses of wine she technically isn’t old enough to drink.

“It was nice of Hannibal to let you stay here,” Will says, stiff and formal as always. Abigail takes a final swallow of her drink and sets the empty glass aside.

When she climbs into his lap, he becomes a statue, terror in his eyes. It seems ridiculous that he should be so afraid of her, some tiny little girl, when he doesn’t even know what she’s done. Most of it, anyway.

“Abigail,” he says, voice thick and choked.

“Don’t pretend,” she says. “I know what you see in me.”

“I see a lot of things in you. Not all of them… _this_.”

“This is fine by me.”

“Abigail.” Sharper now, sterner. “Abigail, I’m twice your age.”

And Hannibal is ten years older than that, but they can discuss the finer aspects of polyamory later.

“I’m not a little girl,” she tells him. “I don’t need Daddy to save me.”

He still won’t make the first move, but when she leans in to kiss him, he softens around the edges. He’s a good man. He wants to keep her safe.

He just needs to learn that she’s never needed kept safe from _him_.

“Hannibal-“ he gasps wetly against her jaw.

“Hannibal won’t mind.” After a moment’s thought, she adds, “he might want to watch.”

This turns out to be a bit too much for poor Will, who makes a strangled, high pitched sound that she can’t help but giggle at.

They don’t fuck that night. He needs reassurance, from her, and then from Hannibal once she’s ‘gone to bed.’

Hannibal gets him first, in the end, but she doesn’t mind. If they love her, and they love each other, then they are a closed circle. Nothing can break through; nothing can drag them apart.

She is patient, for weeks, while Hannibal talks to Will. While he coaxes, and leaves breadcrumbs of secrets, and makes love to Will while she’s meant to be sleeping. She touches herself to the sounds of muffled cries and soft groans, and it is almost, _almost_ perfect.

“How long have you wanted this?”

Will stands in her doorway, hesitant. Abigail pats the bedspread beside her until he gives in and sits down, perched like a bird about to take flight.

“Not the first day,” she said, “when I was reeling and scared. And not the second, when I was angry. After, when you were always there, when there was always someone to turn to. When I snuck into Hannibal’s office and he let me stay and gave me a package full of fly-fishing gear.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Will mutters. “You know why this is a terrible idea, right?”

Abigail rolls her eyes and takes his hand in hers. It’s big, the fingers calloused, dotted with pinprick scars. “No one is ever going to see me the way you two do,” she says, “and it’s the same for you. We are connected.”

“You sound like Hannibal,” He murmurs, shaking his head.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Will touches her like a virgin, like she imagines she would have been touched had she been allowed to date in high school. Considering they’ve both been fucking Hannibal for weeks, and he’s almost alarmingly kinky, Abigail finds this hilarious.

Will’s hands shake when he touches her. His fingers are roughly calloused, but so gentle that they tickle as they skim down her sides. He unwraps her like a gift, frozen when she finally lies bare beneath him.

“You too,” she whispers, and draws his head to her breast as she reaches for his belt.

She feels more like a woman with Will, more like an adult. His mouth and hands are clumsy, but sweet. He sucks at a nipple, leaves a feather-light kiss against her sternum. “You can bruise me,” she says, and he looks horrified at the very thought.

He takes her slowly. This is lovemaking at its finest, the nervous fumbling of a first time, the cherished awe of romance as it should be.

Will _reveres_ her. She feels powerful when he spills between her thighs, when he gasps pleasure wetly in the collar of her throat.

He belongs to them, now, wholly, entirely.

______

In a villa by the Tuscany coast lives a young girl with her two fathers. One is a fisherman, the other, a professor. The girl studies Art History and always stops to chat with the flustered teenage boy who bags their groceries.

And at night, when they return from their daily routines, they slide exhausted into the master bedroom and spill into and over each other, ouroboros completed.

**Author's Note:**

> _Love is patient, love is selfless,  
>  Love is hopeful, love is kind.  
> Love is jealous, love is selfish,  
> Love is helpless, love is blind._
> 
> - _Someone Else,_ by Miley Cyrus


End file.
